


Coffee House Heroes

by whatdoyouthinkmyjobis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Teen Sam Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis/pseuds/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone had to have encouraged Sam in high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee House Heroes

“Is this seat taken?” You tore yourself away from your thesis on magic and myths in Amazonian cultures to behold a shaggy-haired teenager in that awkward stage of growing where his wrists thrust out from his jacket. He was all cheekbones, shoulders, and dimples. The Busy Bean was packed with a post-class, pre-dinner crowd of students in need of caffeine and bagel sandwiches, so your book-covered table for two was literally the last spot in the cafe. He didn’t seem like he had designs other than reading the tattered Tolkien in his hand, so you gestured for him to sit down.

He quietly read his novel and sipped his coffee for half an hour without bothering you. You grew so confident in your silent seatmate that you even asked him if he could watch your mountain of research while you got another red eye. When you returned, you found him reading your copy of _The Hero With A Thousand Faces_.

“It’s so interesting that we’ve been telling the same stories over and over for centuries. The hero has essentially been the same through Gilgamesh, King Arthur, Aragon, and even Luke Skywalker,” he said without breaking from the book.

“You’ve read this?” you asked, unable to hide your surprise.

The boy shrugged and returned your book to the pile. “Picked it up at a library a few months ago. My brother and I are into hero stories. You know, slaying dragons, holding ground against an army of zombies, hunting werewolves.” With a slight blush, he added, “We’re big _Star Wars_ nerds.”

You couldn’t hold back a smile.“You must be pretty excited about the upcoming prequels.”

“Yeah!” A giant smile spread across his face. “George Lucas is such a master story-teller, I’m really excited to see what he wants to tell us about Anakin. And with all the advances in film and special effects technology, it’s going to look amazing.”

Pushing aside your research, you lost yourself in a conversation about the hero’s journey, errant knights, and mystical mentors. You discussed how a character like Han Solo could seduce most of the audience with his charm and swagger into forgetting that he was also a murderer. (“First scene! Here’s a new character. He’s wanted. Watch him murder a guy. Now he’s stealing your heart and you can _never_ have it back.”) Not only could he match and rebuttal all your thoughts on these motifs throughout world mythology, he knew more than you about various boogey men and urban legends.

“It’s a hobby,” he’d said, brushing off your amazement.

His name was Sam. He was a junior in high school, but not local. He was waiting at the cafe while his father and brother interviewed one of the professors about a project they were working on. When you asked for details on the project, Sam’s enthusiasm faded. He swirled the dregs of his coffee and stared at the bottom of the mug. “My father and brother, they’re very passionate. They do good work, they really do, but it’s not for me. They’ve taught me all about how to do the, uh, research, but I just don’t want to go down that path.”

“What do you want to do?”

Chuckling, he said, “Anything else.”

“Have you picked out a college?”

Sadness washed over his face. You’d clearly hit some sort of nerve. “I’d like to. It sounds amazing, but college is sort of the impossible dream.”

The tattered book. Too small coat. Ripped jeans. You felt terrible for not making the connection before. “There’s a lot of aid available,” you said.

He stared at his thumbs tapping on the table. “That’s not the whole problem.”

“You want to have dinner and talk about it? It’s just that you’re really smart and I’d hate to see you not be the world changer you clearly have the potential to be.” You’d already eaten, but this seemed like a better use of the money your parents had sent you than the film festival you’d planned on this weekend.

He hesitated, a personal war waging behind his eyes, before asking for some paper. He quickly scribbled a note, labeled it _Jerk_ and pinned it to the community board. “Let’s go,” he said, smiling. You packed up your notes and books, which he kindly helped you carry down the block to the less crowded Jade Garden buffet.

Over several plates of pot stickers, governor’s chicken, and wonton soup, he told you about how he was constantly being pulled from one school to another because of his father’s relentless pursuit of his research. How his family’s limited space and budget meant he was only able to have books by trading them at any paperback swap he could find. How not having an address meant he wasn’t one of the million high school students receiving constant mailers advertising universities all across the country.

You were drowning in your senior thesis and fellowship applications. A year from now, you were headed to grad school. You didn’t have time for the problems of a teenage boy you just met, but he was so bright and well-spoken. No matter the time it took, you were going to help Sam get into college. “Here’s my number. It’s a cell, so I’m hoping to have that number for a few years. I want you to call me. I want you to call me when you start your next high school. I want you to call me when you ace a test or read a great book. I want you to call me when you wrap up your junior year. Most of all, I want you to call me when you start filling out applications and financial aid. I can help you prep for your placement tests and pick a school. You’re going to go to college, Sam. You’re going to be the writer of your own destiny, the hero of your own journey.”

A year later, when you got the call that Sam Winchester had been accepted to Stanford, your grad school, you cheered into the night from your balcony and popped open a bottle of champagne you’d been saving for exactly such a special occasion.


End file.
